


the sky is breaking

by Lizzen



Category: Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:17:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzen/pseuds/Lizzen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He in no small way just keeps me afloat and happy during the day. We adore each other. In a very platonic-- non-- yeah."</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sky is breaking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [qikiqtarjuaq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/qikiqtarjuaq/gifts).



It happens fast, it makes little sense, and it's the worst possible thing. Wrapped up in the coldness of Holmes, Benedict has kept everything in check, but: he looks, he really looks, and catches the subtle change in Martin's eyes as John Watson comes to life. There's a sharp thud in his heart as everything comes into focus.

It's a wretched discovery when everything you've known about yourself evaporates. Especially in the middle of filming.

"What," Martin says, breaking character and smiling at him in earnest. "What is it? Did I do it wrong?"

Benedict blinks and tries to regain control. "It's me, it's nothing," he replies, concentrating now on the tiny white candle on the table ("it's more romantic") and wondering what the fuck he's going to do now.

(Last year, when they filmed this scene the first time, when the romantic candle was long and pink, Benedict was hungrier, on the verge, unsure of his career if this mad adventure didn't pan out. The work was what mattered, getting it right, getting it perfect.

Now, in the new year, he's been tapped for a Spielberg and a Le Carré, and the National Theatre wants him, bless it, and his agent's whispering something about Danny Boyle. He's not sure how, and he certainly isn't sure how he feels about it, but the world is about to be his oyster. It'll all be Seychelles weekends and a parade of new Spencer Hart.

And he's in love with an all but married man. Apparently.)

*  
He's not certain until:

It's another freezing day and Martin moves in close for warmth as they wait for Paul to set up the shot. They've cuddled up like this for months now, in Cardiff, in London (it's bloody cold, what are they supposed to do?). But now, Benedict's heart is racing so fast that he's breathless.

Martin's teeth chatter. "You're quiet," he says. "Everything good?"

Benedict turns his face to the wind and winces. Chilled to the bone, desperate to keep his carefully memorized deductions intact, and knowing, deeply, that he's completely fucked.

*  
By now he's forgotten the name of the bully who held him down in primary school and whispered, "With a name like that and a face like yours, you better not be a fucking poof."

And like all little boys that age, Benedict had understood the warning and let the enforced childhood pretense become his adult reality.

More than a few people have raised their eyebrows at him, with his history of elite private school, his chosen profession, and his eye for fashion. His current agent had asked, and been relieved at his sharp response. ("Not that there's anything wrong with it, of course!")

Until this point: He could sell the "no, I'm not" because he believed it, utterly. He could point to Olivia, if need be, and put on a good straight-alpha-male show if he must.

Now: He is a consummate professional who can sell the worst of lies to the most difficult of audiences. But a lie is still a lie.

(He realizes too late that Olivia knows, and has known a long time. It's why she dodged his questions about children, kept coy about marriage. There's a lot one learns in twelve years together.)

*  
There are all the kisses and tears when the filming ends, and Martin grips him tight. "Don't be a stranger."

"Amanda cleared it, I'm moving in tomorrow," Benedict replies, with the easiest of forced smiles.

Martin nods sagely. "She would, that one. She adores you. You're formally in charge of all housekeeping and nappy changing."

When they part, Benedict breathes out slowly, watching him turn away, unaware. His blood runs cold with a hundred fears, and all the confusion of a man who can't express what he feels.

*  
He's all but lost Olivia, he can tell. There's a stillness to her that he's not used to, and it scares him.

He tries to save what they've built, but he's busy filming _Warhorse_ and _Third Star_ and _Tinker Tailor_ , and she is slowly, intentionally, making her way to the periphery of his life.

*  
Tomas sends him a script change before shooting begins in earnest. "Every man has his secrets," the handwritten note says.

The new pages change everything Benedict knows about Peter Guillam, the womanizing spy, Le Carré's James Bond, the Watson to Smiley's Sherlock. It will have to color the entire performance. Benedict covers his smile with his hand.

He texts Gary, "I'm gay now apparently." Gary texts back, "Fuck it, aren't we all?"

*  
It's early spring and Olivia walks, agreeing to whatever story he's going to tell the press. Even if it slights her.

"I don't think a child could fix us, could fix you," she had said at a bad moment. It was unkind, but he deserved (deserves) worse.

(Worse is knowing what you want and being unable to have it, except when Paul says "action" and the way Martin is looking at you changes just slightly and your blood runs just a few degrees warmer.)

*  
It's not a seduction, he has no agenda, but it is a kind of pursuit. They've always got along smashingly, and much of the time they share is spent with Amanda and the tiny Freemans. But:

Something changes in their relationship, like someone has tied a string between the two of them and is slowly winding them closer. Everything seems warmer, fuller, and – judging by their phone records and credit card bills – probably not at all healthy.

On a trip to Savile Row, by way of an emergency stop at Harrods, Martin confesses: "New Zealand will be such a fucking boy's club. I wish you were there to even the odds."

Benedict is in the middle of trying on a very exquisite pair of men's Louboutins with a hundred silver spikes on them (almost as painful as the women's line, he imagines), and clears his throat. "I beg your pardon, sir."

"Me and a million blokes in fat suits rolling around in the woods for months? This summer with you and Series 2 will be like coming home."

Benedict blushes.

Martin gestures to the shoes. "And those are the most hideous things I've ever seen. Buy them immediately, or I will."

*  
Voice message from Martin: "You're going to get a call in a few, and you're going to say yes, and your audition is going to be Puff the Magic Dragon, and you're going to thank me profusely. Cheers."

Later, Peter Jackson is pouring honey in his ear and then: "He absolutely adores you. I couldn't get him to shut up about this." Benedict is unsure what is making his heart beat faster, the fame or the favor.

*  
When Martin leaves for New Zealand, Amanda invites him up to stay for a week. "I need a little madness to distract me, and you have more than your fair share," she says, her eyes bright.

He's got the time to spare, and he enjoys her company. He can't quite put his finger on what it is that makes her so obviously Martin's better half, but it charms him.

Benedict spends the week drinking tea, cuddling Joe and Grace, listening to Martin's records, and staying up late talking to Amanda so they can skype Martin together.

It's everything he wants, and he's part of it, he's a welcome member of it, and something in him just aches.

*  
With the press, it's a two edged sword. He's supposed to be openly in love with Martin and, at the same time, be completely straight. Downey Jr. can suck on Jude Law's lower lip, and waltz home with his wife. Now more than ever, Benedict finds the expectation unpleasant, but there's a terror in denying normalcy on a public stage.

He arms himself with the prettiest answers he can think of, shades them lightly with truth.

*  
Benedict Cumberbatch, BAFTAs Red Carpet 2011: "He's a joy to work with. He in no small way just keeps me afloat and happy during the day as well. And he’s just a brilliant presence to be around. He’s just a scream. We adore each other. In a very platonic-- non-- yeah."

*  
Filming Series 2 is in full swing, and there are new fine suits and silk dressing gowns, and silly little matching tea mugs with their names taped on. They can all vaguely feel that something ugly is brewing in London; but "221B" Gower Street is yet untouched. Benedict's the happiest he's been in ages.

"So many Freemans to cuddle today!" Benedict says, sweeping tiny Joe up into his arms. It's foolish to make such a public scene when so many fans with cameras are snapping away, but then Grace is waving a long tickling peacock feather in his face, begging for attention, and how could he deny her?

He bends down to kiss her cheeks and she puts her arms around his neck. "Hulloo," she intones, the perfect cherub. The familiar twinge in his heart grips him, that strange yearning to be a dad. He looks away as he pulls her up into his arms.

As it is, looking away means looking at Martin.

"A good day, this?" Benedict says.

Martin laughs. "A good day. Happiest when working."

"That why you took Faris' call?" Benedict barely got through _Love Actually_ without killing everyone in the movie theatre; he's worried now about sitting through _What's Your Number_.

Martin gives him a look. "Must warm the American audiences up for my face, Ben. It's going to be plastered all over the blinking country for two years. I have to prepare them for it."

"No one can prepare for your face."

"Shut it," Martin says, looking fond.

*  
With their BAFTAs in hand, Martin and Mark and Steven are fearless: the three famous stories, more nudity than Benedict was initially comfortable with, and more than the usual winding up of the subtext. Everything is intense, and it's easy, so easy to get carried away.

There's an ongoing argument, and Benedict keeps his nose out of it as he's positively terrified what he would say if really pressed.

On break: Mark's crossed his arms firmly and is shaking his head at Martin. "No, no, no, Steven and I are certain about this. No."

Martin is the very picture of tiny indefatigable defiance. "Well, someday they MIGHT kiss. Who knows, and really, what's the big fucking deal?"

Benedict searches for his cigarettes, focuses on his lines.

*  
The scene: Tensionville, 221B. John is mad; Sherlock is calm. Sherlock is supposed to look away but Benedict can't. Martin steps in closer and goes off script.

Perhaps it's the look on his face, perhaps it's just the anticipation of something deliciously spontaneous, but everyone on set goes deadly still.

Benedict fidgets (Sherlock would, under that gaze), adds a mystified, "John?"

Martin's John looks a mix of utter exasperation and anger. Benedict's sure he's about to be hit, and tenses for faking the blow. "You complete idiot." The look softens just slightly as Martin takes Benedict's face in his hands.

And Martin kisses him, full on the lips.

It takes a solid moment for the other shoe to drop, and then the crew loses it, a giggle fit ringing up and down the hall. Mark is yelling, "I'm still not convinced!" And Paul keeps the camera rolling, tilting his head to the side. "Fuck, this angle is shit for a kissing scene. No one told me there would be kissing!"

Benedict can't hear them, can only hear the rushing sound in his ears. It's the first time he's kissed a man that he truly, completely, utterly wants. And it's probably the first and last time he'll ever get to kiss Martin. It's a kiss that goes on longer than it should, considering.

At last, Martin pulls away, giggling, proud of himself. "Let's see Robert and Jude beat that."

It's a joke, it's a joke, it's not serious. Just Martin keeping the take fresh, just Martin making a point. Benedict can roll with this, as long as he can keep his voice steady. "Impossible."

Martin grins, leans in, and kisses him lightly one more time. "Another take, then?"

*  
Try as he might, Benedict cannot remember a thing about how the kiss felt except for the slide of Martin's thumb on his cheek.

*  
The London riots shut down the set, and Amanda demands they both come up to Hertfordshire for dinner and breakfast. They bring her a basket of flowers, and she kisses them both in greeting. "My consulting husbands," she calls them, her smile radiant.

She and Martin speak in that kind of incomprehensible shorthand that comes out of years spent together, and a mutual affinity of spirit. They orbit each other at an easy, comfortable pace; always touching when they can. The two are well matched, endlessly confident, and mysteriously, bizarrely, inexplicably fond of Benedict. It's confusing, and a touch wonderful, and by now, Benedict is pretty certain he's a bit in love with Amanda too.

The kids are in bed by the time they open the third bottle of wine and Benedict is on a tear.

"We're fucking national treasures, aren't we? So why the fuck didn't we get called up for _Potter_? Aren't there a billion Weasley uncles?" It's a sore spot, but he's pretty sure it's a sore spot for most of the collective United Kingdom acting pool.

Martin shakes his head. "You just miss being home at Hogwarts, don't you?"

" _Harrow_ 's School of Witchcraft and Tombuggery was a lovely experience that I will forever repress, thank you very much, and," and he slips into his Alan Rickman drawl, "ten points from Hufflepuff, you berk."

Martin giggles, and looks delicious and daft. "Mother of Christ, I am a bloody Gryffindor."

"Tweeeenty points," he replies.

Amanda shakes her head. "Stop denying who you are, Martin. Hufflepuff is a noble house."

"Traitors, the lot of you. Don't know why I put up with it." Martin's pout is legendary, and he displays it in earnest now.

"Ah, but you love us," Amanda says.

"You love us," Benedict echoes.

"You can both fuck off," Martin replies.

*  
The next day, Martin texts him late: "But doesn't Tolkien count?"

Benedict texts back: "Potter or bust"

*  
A few days later, his phone rings incessantly as a result of some lovely gossip about Marvel being interested.

Gruffudd calls, "Dear God, tell me it's Namor and we're on for Fantastic Four." Hardy calls, "DC is the way to go, you big sell out. And Gary's not speaking to you." Hiddleston calls, "Call me immediately, we need to discuss possible wardrobe nightmares." McAvoy calls, "Please tell me it's X-Men, please please please."

Martin calls, "Oh, so you want YOUR face all over America, I see, I see."

As it's been for most of his friends, the superhero movie route is the natural next step, but there's no validity to the strange rumor. He gets his agent to call Marvel anyway.

(Everyone gets the same answer: "I'm playing Tony Stark in the updated BBC version of _Iron Man_. Ta.")

*  
It's the last day, and there are more tears this time. Benedict makes sure to pull Martin in tight one last time before he leaves. It'll be another year and another continent before he can do this again.

"Love you too, you bastard," Martin says, his voice just a little tight. Benedict breathes normally this time, but squeezes Martin's hand just a little too hard.

*  
His agent calls. "Bring a date to your next event."

It's literally not occurred to him in months to keep up some sham of heteronormative behavior (he's Sherlock fucking Holmes, isn't he?), so he's unprepared. He almost calls Amanda, but that wouldn't solve the problem.

Anna's a friend of his mother's new favorite designer, and she looks smashing in Dior and Manolos. But like Olivia, she doesn't smile while standing next to him, looking pale and disinterested. It's completely his fault, he's a shit date, and she's being as polite as she can about it, bless.

(It works, of course. _The Daily Mail_ eats it up.)

*  
Martin's in New Zealand, and there's a loneliness that settles, eating at him. Everyone asks about _The Hobbit_ , and Benedict politely replies that he knows nothing, he starts in January, says lovely things about Smaug. It's a hateful waiting period, and the utter delight that is Rebecca Hall and filming _Parade's End_ is colored by the miniseries' foundation in infidelity and cruel wives.

Amanda's off filming when he gets a break, so he makes his Seychelles dreams come true, and finds out that loneliness is actually the worst in the middle of paradise.

He texts, endless nattering ridiculous texts (stupid little things, and silly photos, and long stories, and gossip about French actresses), and hopes Martin doesn't hate him for it.

"You texting your girlfriend?" a golden haired man asks him, his smile full of promise.

"My brother," Benedict replies, clutching the phone tight, considering.

*  
There's a particularly beautiful African sunset that he enjoys, and his phone buzzes at last.

"been hobbitting. miss you"

His furious mosaic of feelings is starting to take form. The more he thinks about it, the more he feels merely delighted for his reality than covetous for a fantasy. It's a sign that he might walk away from this and be whole.

*  
Olivia calls him out of the blue and he makes her dinner (well, he picks up something nice at Waitrose).

They catch up, and there's a glimmer of the old times. A lot happens in living together for over a decade, not just the slow burn of falling apart.

"You're happier," she says, kindly.

"So are you," he tells her.

She smiles, looking carefree and impossibly young.

It's not regret that seizes his heart so much as a sadness that he failed her.

*  
He catches Amanda for a weekend before Martin's little family leaves for the land of Hobbits. She's exhausted, and lets him do all the cooking and washing up while she packs.

Giggling and precious, Grace haunts his steps and occasionally gets tangled up in his legs. (She owns the softest part of his heart.) Joe solemnly informs him that mum's worked now with Lucius Malfoy, but he's actually very nice and not at all dangerous. They're both bright, sunny echoes of both parents, and Benedict wonders about some future child, doomed to have his horse face and arsed last name.

That night: "Why doesn't he marry you?" he asks.

"What, are _you_ offering?" Amanda shoots back, eyes alight.

"As if you'd have me," he replies.

She laughs, fond, slides in closer to him and they sit side by side, comfortably quiet.

At last: "I miss him, and you, here, make it hurt less."

Benedict feels a sort of peace. He reaches out to hold her hand, squeezes tight.

*  
Martin has to miss every Series 2 promo event, and Benedict lets more of his unkind thoughts seep out as it seems that all the questions are about "Mr. Freeman" and _The Hobbit_. He's Sherlock fucking Holmes, isn't he? There's a weird anger, and an even weirder jealousy that drills down deep. Tolkien trumps Doyle, and Martin is catapulting up and away from him. It's one thing to be a household name in your own country. It's another to be on a half-billion dollar production with rockstar perks and two years' worth of worldwide marketing of your face and hairy feet.

Fame is a fickle mistress.

It's not until he's practicing in a dark room, sliding along on his belly, thinking dragonish thoughts, that he realizes he's been a complete prat. But he holds onto the feeling, and in that moment, Smaug takes shape in the more capricious waters of his heart.

*  
When they meet at the airport, Benedict and Martin go through the usual motions of touching, clasping, cataloguing each other's wardrobe; but it's not the same. It's a pleasant and unhealthy codependency; but the sharp twang of desire is blessedly missing.

Benedict doesn't even notice that Martin clings a little harder than usual. (He's been off in the wild for a long, long time now.)

*  
Smaug isn't supposed to see Bilbo, but Benedict looks full into Martin's face, and into that familiar affectionate look in Martin's eyes.

(It's a sign of Martin's complete comfort with motion capture because Benedict looks positively ridiculous in this get up of little balls and spandex.)

Benedict clicks his tongue against his teeth approvingly. "You know, if he could see you, Smaug would keep you forever in his cave, deep in his spell."

Martin shrugs. "If he kept him supplied with tea and biscuits and the occasional adventure, they'd be terrific cave-shares."

Holding himself up with his forearms and stretching his neck out, Benedict grins and it's all teeth. "You'd be responsible for picking up the milk though."

A sulking look slides over Martin's face and Benedict feels irrevocably at ease. He loves Martin, and will forever; but it's different, somehow, and nicer this way.

*  
He doesn't have a deluge of scripts pouring in, but he has a sizeable stack of good ones, and his agent is all smiles now.

After hungering for it most of his life, fame is an odd taste in his mouth now that he has it. The trappings are mixed. There are such pretty things in his closet that make his knees go weak with pleasure, but he can't easily walk the streets of London anymore.

He's enough of a star that he can attend events alone without too much gossip (an unattached man has a sense of mystery, and it's easier to talk to him without smalltalking the date).

But he's not enough of a star in that if he comes out now, being gay will be his lasting legacy. And there are just some things Benedict is not willing to face. (And it's not as if he has a gentlemen caller; it's not as if he's actively looking for one.)

He'll wait for something big to headline, for an Oscar, or some American Primetime gig like Laurie. At that point, people would talk, but people would know who he was. And the checks would be cashed.

It's a bit mercenary, but he can live with it.

*  
They meet up just before the UK premiere of _Unexpected Journey_ (they bought each other a bespoke three piece Mark Powell; Benedict is just checking in on his investment).

"This year I have to walk the carpet alone," Martin crinkles his nose. "Next year, we'll walk together."

Benedict takes in a breath and adjusts Martin's tie. "Next year, I might bring a date. And _he_ 'll be lovely."

Martin opens his mouth and then closes it. "Oh."

Benedict makes a face. "Yeah."

A shadow dims Martin's eyes for a moment before he gives a beaming, warm smile. "Too bad I'm an old married man, I guess."

There's a sharp thud in his heart that Benedict promptly ignores. "Especially with your face."

Martin reaches up, takes Benedict's face in his hands, and kisses him on the cheek. It's sweet, it's enough. "Come on then, limos, and paps, and eternal fame."

Benedict shakes his head. "No, not until they ask us to play Dumbledore and Voldemort in the remake."  


"Point."

*  
His agent calls with an offer from Marvel, and an offer from HBO. "Tell them I'm interested," he replies.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to the usual suspects who provided beta and cheerleader and "he's wearing shoes that Johnny Weir would knock him over the head to steal, what on earth?!" services. xo


End file.
